


What My Body Has Seen

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Comeplay, Creampie, Hair-pulling, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John insists on using condoms. Sherlock is disappointed. Apparently, this is how fetishes are born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [What My Body Has Seen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298857) by [yasang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasang/pseuds/yasang)



“What,” Sherlock said peevishly, “are you doing?”

Thankfully, John stopped, although he didn’t immediately toss the offending condom wrapper off the bed and to the floor as Sherlock had hoped. “You know, for someone who hates when people repeat the obvious, you’ve been asking me to do a lot of it lately. I’m putting on a condom.”

“Why?”

Even if Sherlock were biologically capable of becoming pregnant—he was not, of course, and John was not stupid enough to think so—fellatio wouldn’t pose a problem. Sherlock had no infections. John had only the type 1 strain of herpes simplex virus—Sherlock had seen the cold sores on his lips—which Sherlock didn’t care a whit about.

Still, John stared like Sherlock was the one being dim. “Because I practise safe sex, Sherlock. And that you apparently don’t is—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. “My last sexual encounter was over ten years ago, and I assure you that I took all the appropriate precautions.”

“Well, mine wasn’t over ten years ago,” John snapped right back. “In fact, as you’ve even commented on, I’m a bit of a slag, which puts me at a higher risk for STIs. Plus, sex isn’t the only… um.”

John stared intently, clearly willing Sherlock to finish the sentence for him, and for once, Sherlock couldn’t do so immediately. The lapse was brief, perhaps a full second before he was able to follow John’s thought process, but significant in its rarity. He seldom felt so blindsided.

He shouldn’t have, of course. It was a valid point. Unclean needles could cause just as much damage as unsafe intercourse, and John knew very well that Sherlock had used needles much, much more recently than he had had intercourse. However, he’d always used a clean needle—even during his stints in drug dens, dwellings of filth that they were.

Still, no reason for John to believe it. Doubtlessly some people got themselves so inebriated they didn’t know or care what they were sticking into their veins.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have mattered to Sherlock. What difference did it make if he didn’t experience the pleasure of John’s bare prick ejaculating into his mouth?

But there was a difference. Somehow. The idea that he could have sex with John without knowing the taste and texture of his semen was unpleasant, to say the least.

Kneeling between John’s knees, so close to getting his mouth on that lovely cock—average length, impressive girth, uncircumcised, curved down and to the left—Sherlock hadn’t felt disappointment this sharp since… he couldn’t even recall.

“You could pull out before you reach orgasm,” he offered. Not an ideal solution, but acceptable. He could at least taste John’s precome, and perhaps John would ejaculate _on_ him. Or on the sheets—Sherlock wasn’t opposed to sucking on fabric if it got him closer to what he wanted.

Contrary to expectations, John’s expression became one of incredulity. “Please tell me you haven’t _deleted_ basic sex ed.”

Far from a promising response on its own, but worst of all, John’s erection began to wilt.

Panic thrashed itself against Sherlock’s ribcage. John would change his mind, decide Sherlock was too difficult a sexual partner, and end their fledgling relationship. That couldn’t happen; Sherlock wouldn’t allow it.

“Ignore that,” he said quickly. “Just… ignore everything I just said. It’s fine. A condom is fine. Good, even. Brilliant.”

Rambling, Sherlock was rambling. _For god’s sake, shut up_ , he told himself, and thankfully his body obeyed.

John eyed him a moment longer, as though attempting to peer into his thoughts—hopeless, of course, but he always tried—before he returned to tearing open the wrapper and unrolling the condom onto his erection. Which still hadn’t regained its full hardness; the tantalising vein on the underside wasn’t nearly as prominent as it had been before Sherlock’s apparent blunder.

Thus, eager to remedy the situation, he fairly fell on John’s prick the second he was permitted, taking it as deeply into his throat as he could and covering the rest with his hand.

It was… not unpleasant, certainly. John’s quadriceps twitched beneath his skin, and he knotted his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, gripping like a drowning man struggling to keep afloat and inadvertently pulling on it in the process. That was all extremely pleasant and rewarding: sensory data he would file in a box to be stored in its own room in his mind palace.

But the smell and taste of polyisoprene—not latex: preference, allergy, or consideration for the allergies of his partners?—and the knowledge that what lay between him and what he wanted was thin and relatively fragile proved a distraction. A slip of Sherlock’s teeth or the application of friction that was too vigorous or dry would puncture it easily.

To do so deliberately would be not good, though. More than not good, in fact: it would be reprehensible.

He shoved the thought from his mind and instead devoted himself to lavishing attention to the crown of John’s cock. He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to it and did his best to map it with his tongue through the condom. So that when John began to come, Sherlock could _feel_ it: the ejaculate spilling from the slit, coating the glans.

With a moan, Sherlock tried to suck it all to the tip of the condom, to hold it in his mouth even with the barrier. So close, it was so close. His own arousal, which was considerable, was second to his desire for John to get rid of the sodding condom and fill Sherlock’s mouth with semen.

 _Mine_ , he thought despairingly. _That should be_ mine.

All too soon, John pushed him away, leaving Sherlock to watch longingly as he removed the condom, tied it off, and then rose from the bed to bin it.

Later, Sherlock managed to resist the urge to retrieve it from the rubbish. But only just.

*

Sherlock was technically capable of performing his own STI screening, although he elected to visit a clinic instead. In part because he wanted an official printout confirming his infection-free status, which arrived in the post several days later and which he promptly displayed in the centre of the coffee table where John was sure to see it.

If John did see it, however, he showed no sign. After two days of silence on the subject, the printout of Sherlock’s results entirely untouched where he’d left it, Sherlock had the printout blown up on a photocopier and then taped it to the fridge at John’s eye level.

Still, there was nothing. Granted, John also hadn’t instigated sexual activity since Sherlock had received the results, so perhaps his response would be to simply _not_ fish a condom from his wallet the next time Sherlock wanted to perform oral sex.

When he witnessed John approach the fridge and open the door without even seeming to notice the photocopy attached to it, however, Sherlock’s already frayed patience snapped.

“The NHS has declared me free from all known STIs,” he said, coming to stand directly behind John. A position that John disliked immensely— _‘Breathing down my fucking neck,’_ he sometimes called it—although it always ensured that Sherlock would have his full attention.

“Yes,” John said coolly, closing the fridge and turning around empty-handed, “somehow I managed to figure that out, what with you plastering the results all over the flat. I’m not sure whether I should be amused or offended that you think I’m so unobservant you needed to have it enlarged so I can read it all the way across the bloody room.”

“And?”

John blinked. “And what?”

Infuriating. John wasn’t nearly as stupid as the rest of humanity, so Sherlock failed to see why he continued to behave as though he was. “Are you satisfied that we can dispense with the use of condoms?”

John actually recoiled with a baffled look, as though the idea was truly that ludicrous. “Satisfied? Um, no, not exactly. You realise you’re only half the equation here?”

Ah, yes, because John was a “slag.” Well, that was easily addressed.

“Then we’ll have you tested as well. At the same clinic I used, if you’d like. Not a bad experience overall. A lot of waiting, though. If you were comfortable, _I_ am of course perfectly capable of—”

“Sherlock!” John barked. It was his Army tone, his Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers voice, which always made Sherlock go immediately silent in awe. “What the hell is going on?”

Sherlock made himself breathe deeply, trying to slow his frantic heartbeat. If John was going to call the whole thing off, then Sherlock would be calm and rational. He would not go to his knees and beg for another chance. He would not. “Nothing is ‘going on.’”

“Bullshit. You”—John jabbed his index finger towards Sherlock’s chest—“have been bizarre about this since the beginning.”

 _Calm and rational_ , Sherlock reminded himself. “I was simply pointing out that to persist in using condoms if we’ve no reason to—”

“No,” John snapped. “If any part of this were based on logic, you’d have been as upfront and blunt as ever. _This_ —” John made a wide, sweeping gesture towards the fridge. “—this is an emotional response.”

Not just any emotional response, Sherlock thought in dismay. It was the basest of emotions, and he had been letting it rule him for weeks. Shame was a mantle over his shoulders, weighing them down in an uncharacteristic slump.

“Hey.” John’s voice was soft now, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “Just… talk to me, all right? Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Nothing for it, then. Sherlock took a deep breath. “I want it.”

Succinct, but it should suffice.

John licked his lips, squinting as though the statement required any amount of deep thought. “You want… to have sex without a condom?”

More or less accurate, if not exactly what Sherlock had meant. “Broadly speaking, yes.”

John stared, wearing the sort of expression that said _Think very carefully before you give me anything but the complete truth._

Sherlock sighed. “I confess the thought of coming into contact with your semen holds… a great deal of appeal for me. And the entire function of a prophylactic is to ensure that that doesn’t occur.”

“That’s true,” John said. Only the potential gravity of the situation, the threat of turning John off sex with Sherlock entirely, kept Sherlock from rolling his eyes in disgust at his insistence on stating the obvious. “So you want me to… come in you, on you, all of the above?”

“Yes. That….” The images nearly undid him. The taste of ejaculate thick in his mouth while a splatter of it dried on his face and in his hair, and even more of it trickled down his thighs. On him, in him. _Oh_. “Yes,” he finished stupidly, and knew from John’s raised eyebrow that his momentary distraction had not gone unnoticed.

“Okay,” John said. He licked his lips again, although more slowly this time. Clearly savouring the image in his own head. “That’s… not what I was expecting.”

 _Obviously_ , Sherlock thought. He rewound and replayed the last few minutes and saw quite clearly now that John had believed Sherlock’s objections stemmed from concern about a lack of emotional security in the relationship. Dull. He didn’t bother to hold back his answering eye roll.

“Right.” John stepped back with a decisive nod. “Well. I should get tested too, I suppose. After that… well, then we can talk about this a bit more.”

*

The following week, John brought home the results of a full STI screening, which were precisely what Sherlock had anticipated: negative for all but the type 1 strain of herpes simplex virus, for which he tested positive.

“Right, so,” John began, when Sherlock had snatched the printout from his hands, “not entirely clean, as you can see. Could present a problem.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock didn’t hesitate to tell him.

“It really isn’t,” John tried to argue, but Sherlock had none of it.

“Of course it is. You have a cold sore outbreak when you get ill. Always one sore, always precisely the same place—your bottom lip, just to the right of the middle. As long as we abstain from kissing and oral sex during an outbreak, it should prove inconsequential.”

Sherlock expected John to respond by reminding him of the brief period of time just before an outbreak, when the virus would be communicable although John wouldn’t yet be aware of it. Sherlock was prepared for that. He would tell John how very much he did not care if he contracted it. Nonterminal and manageable with medication—why should he care?

But John didn’t say a word about the risk. He simply nodded, staring down at the paper in Sherlock’s hands and licking his upper lip thoughtfully.

“You’re still hesitating,” Sherlock said. Obvious, and he hated stating the obvious. Why was he doing so now? “Why are you hesitating?”

“Dunno.” John folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the worktop. “Just seems like we should talk about it a bit more, I suppose.”

“Ah.” Sherlock half-turned so he could toss the printout onto the table. He’d have taped it beside his own results on the fridge, but he didn’t have the sellotape for it at the moment. “Yes, I quite agree.”

“You do?” John’s right eyebrow arched.

“Of course.” Why should John have been surprised? They had numerous things to discuss, after all. “For fellatio, would you prefer ejaculating into my mouth or onto my face? Both sound equally appealing to me, although as I understand it, semen in the eye is a highly unpleasant—”

“Not—” John interrupted, but had to pause for a giggle. He ducked his head, glancing up at Sherlock through his eyelashes with the little grin that never failed to make Sherlock feel immeasurably fond of him. “Not exactly what I meant, but, um….”

Sherlock understood then, in a way he had not before: this was far outside John’s comfort zone. He’d never dispensed with condoms in his previous relationships, and perhaps—likely—had even promised himself he’d never do so. But he trusted Sherlock, wanted to make him happy.

Sherlock’s adoration was a physical presence in his chest, expanding with every breath.

“Of course,” he made himself say, “if you would prefer to forget the whole thing….”

Sherlock would swallow his disappointment and accept the decision. Thankfully, his mental faculties were advanced enough that he could construct a reasonably satisfying fantasy in which he could indulge when he was alone.

“Sherlock.” John raised his chin, revealing his grin that had widened, lighting up his whole face. “Come here.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be drawn closer until their legs were interlocked, John’s palms cupping either side of his jaw.

“It’s fine,” John said softly, and kissed him.

*

They argued over position and location. Sherlock wanted John standing (the trajectory of his ejaculation assisted by gravity) in the kitchen (easier clean-up in the event of a mess), and John wanted to lie on his back (lazy) in bed (overly concerned with traditional locations for sex).

They compromised: John seated in his armchair in the living room, Sherlock kneeling between his thighs.

“Should I, I dunno, take off my clothes or anything?” John asked, as Sherlock unfastened the button on his trousers.

“No.” Not now, not this first time. Now that he was so close, Sherlock hadn’t the patience to wait for John to undress himself. Once John’s zip was open, Sherlock slid his trousers down his hips, followed by his pants. “All I need is your cock.”

“Sure,” John said, already breathless, “but if anything gets on my clothes—”

He cut himself off with a hiss when Sherlock closed his fingers around John’s lovely, bare prick, which was not yet half-erect. Sherlock thought that at some point he would like to feel it harden in his mouth, and keep it there until it had gone soft again.

But not today, obviously. Aside from the fact that John was already growing hard before Sherlock had tasted him, Sherlock also wanted to _watch_ this time—begin with his mouth but end with his hand, fisting John’s prick while he watched up close as it came.

John’s cock smelled musky, a bit like dried sweat but not unpleasantly so. This close, holding it in his hand, Sherlock could see that it was approximately 15 centimetres in length, over 13 centimetres in girth, and—Sherlock eased the foreskin from the crown—had a typical helmet-shaped head. It thickened in Sherlock’s grip, and Sherlock pressed a closed-mouth kiss to the tip.

“Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth. “Just—get on with it, please.”

Sherlock did, relaxing his jaw and throat and taking John in as deeply as possible. He was sure to run his tongue along the underside, tasting as he swallowed. It tasted like skin and sweat and, disappointingly, little else of note.

“Christ,” John groaned. A muscle in his right thigh jumped, and he gripped the edge of the armchair on either side of his legs.

Ridiculous. Sherlock pulled back, relishing the almost pleading twitch of John’s prick as it slid from his lips. “You pulled my hair the first time we did this.”

John blinked dumbly, as though Sherlock were speaking a foreign language. “Yeah. Um… sorry, I—”

Annoyance shot swiftly through him. Sherlock was _right here_ with a headful of curls far more suited to the task, yet John honestly thought Sherlock would prefer him to grip a lump of stuffing and fabric?

“Don’t apologise. I want it,” he said, and willed the desire to be obvious in his expression.

John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he obliged, gathering a loose fistful of Sherlock’s hair in each hand.

With an approving hum, Sherlock lowered his head again, and was rewarded with the sensation of John’s fingers tightening their hold as Sherlock took the tip of his cock into his mouth. He suckled it sweetly, wetly, letting his saliva roll down the length to provide lubricant for his hand as it stroked along the shaft. So, so content with the knowledge that he was the first, the only person, to taste John like this.

“God,” John said hoarsely. “You look— _fuck_.”

Sherlock opened his eyes—when had he closed them? he couldn’t recall—to see John staring down at him hungrily. At Sherlock’s mouth, specifically. And then, finally, Sherlock caught the first hint of a salty, faintly bitter taste.

Only pre-ejaculate, and only a bit of it, barely a drop, but Sherlock moaned. Close, it was so close to what he wanted.

He pulled back, fisting John’s cock more quickly and roughly—his hands were far more dexterous than his lips or tongue, more capable of bringing John to orgasm _now_ rather than continuing to draw it out, teasing them both.

John’s grip on his hair tightened, shooting sparks of pain along Sherlock’s scalp. But Sherlock was far more concerned with the thick, reddened cock in his hand, which was thickening even further as Sherlock pumped. It throbbed weakly with each of John’s gasps.

John was getting close—so close. Sherlock’s mouth watered at the thought. But he wouldn’t taste this time, he reminded himself. He would only watch, perhaps lick his fingers clean afterwards.

Then another, larger bead of precome appeared from the slit, slid down the helmet-shaped head, and Sherlock lost the plot entirely.

He took the glans into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could, still fisting the shaft. John jolted like he’d been shot and heaved forwards, curling over Sherlock’s head with a sharp “ah!”

“Jesus,” he moaned, just as Sherlock felt the back of his shirt being grabbed, the fabric balled in a pair of fists. “Not—that— _fuck_ , Sherlock.”

John’s prick swelled even further, pulsing, and possessive glee shot through Sherlock as the first spurt of ejaculate landed perfectly in the centre of his tongue, filling his mouth with the pungent, distinctive taste of come.

The only person to have tasted John like this—Sherlock wished he could somehow display this moment for all to see. He wanted to wrap the knowledge around him like an impenetrable cloak.

Sherlock pulled off, and John let out a pitiful “no, no,” clawing at Sherlock’s back, but quieted immediately when Sherlock continued stroking him as his cock pulsed a second time. Not quite a spurt like the first had been: this time, the come spilled out like water from an overflowing glass, dribbling over Sherlock’s knuckles and dripping onto his chest, the floor, John’s trousers, John’s cock and balls.

It was less viscous than he had expected, certainly less thick than Sherlock’s own ejaculate, which fell in white globules when he orgasmed. John’s was more of a translucent stream. Sherlock couldn’t hold back a moan as he watched it, and his own cock throbbed in sympathy.

A third pulse, then a fourth, before it finally subsided, leaving John still slumped over with his eyes squeezed shut as tremors wracked his body. His prick twitched in Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock slowed his strokes, dragging his fist wetly and slowly along the shaft. He managed to wring one final thin dribble of semen before John commanded him to “Stop, fucking _Christ_.” Sherlock obeyed, then stared dumbly down at the mess John had made.

 _Mine_ , he thought, and had to tighten his lips to hold in his whimper.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said John. He was panting, still trembling minutely, and although his eyes were open, he blinked more often than usual. “But that was… way too quick. Not exactly, um, satisfying.”

Sherlock’s dismay lasted only a second. He hadn’t been trying to satisfy, after all; he’d been trying to make John ejaculate.

And he had succeeded. The evidence was on—and in him.

He licked his lips at the reminder, savouring the taste. John’s semen was less bitter than Sherlock’s, less like juice that was just beginning to sour. Perhaps not enough to be pleasant by normal standards, but certainly less _un_ pleasant.

Sherlock brought his hand to his mouth and ran his tongue over the knuckles, licking up the come. He found that the texture, too, was less offensive than his own. Less sticky, easier to swallow. He moaned softly, then lapped up some more.

“Jesus,” John muttered. Then there was a hand in Sherlock’s hair, and he glanced up. John was wide-eyed, awed. “Look at you. You are a filthy whore, aren’t you?”

 _Only for you_ , Sherlock thought, and suspected his expression said as much. He scooped a fingerful of semen from his chest and brought that to his mouth as well.

John’s response was a strangled groan, and his hand tightened around a lock of Sherlock’s hair. “What do you need?” he said, words coming in a quiet rush. “Anything you want, you can have. My hand, my mouth, my… anything.”

Sherlock hardly even cared. His own arousal seemed unimportant, fluttering about his consciousness like an insect he didn’t feel inclined to swat away. Mostly, he wanted John to come again. Entirely in Sherlock’s mouth this time, where he could hold it whilst he wanked himself stupid.

“When will you be able to go again?”

John looked alarmed by the question, although it had seemed to Sherlock perfectly reasonable. “Erm, not tonight, I don’t think.”

Disappointing. So much so that Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised if his own erection had flagged at the answer.

Tomorrow, then. First thing tomorrow.

“I’ll wait,” he said.

*

To say that Sherlock had enjoyed sex before John would have been a lie. The sensation of an orgasm was pleasurable, of course, and he had been able to tolerate most sexual acts with all genders. But rarely had he ever truly _wanted_ sex.

With John, though—or, more accurately, with John after they had done away with condoms—Sherlock craved it almost constantly.

The sheets on the bed were perpetually stained, Mrs Hudson complained endlessly about the noise, and John’s armchair stunk of semen and sweat.

Sherlock couldn’t get enough. He woke John in the night with a desire to see John’s semen drip over his fingers and form a puddle on John’s belly. He interrupted John’s favourite programme wanting to feel that first shot of come across his face before the rest spilled into his open mouth.

Mostly, though, he liked to take John down his throat as deeply as possible, so that not a drop of semen was wasted. Sherlock took every bit of it into himself, to be passed through his digestive system and absorbed and assimilated into his body. (Ignoring the possibility of it being disposed of as waste. His transport, he knew, was disappointing in many ways, but surely not so useless that it would deem John’s genetic material unnecessary.)

Although, Sherlock reflected, John’s ejaculate on his skin—sinking into his pores, drying and becoming like another layer of Sherlock’s skin—had a certain appeal as well. The idea made his blood sing. Possessiveness thrummed through his bones.

“You’re mine,” he sighed happily, relaxing into the duvet and the pillow folded beneath his hips whilst John fingered him open. He would have John’s bare prick in him for the first time in a matter of minutes, John’s come in his arse for the first time shortly afterwards—he felt almost delirious with contentedness.

John chuckled, drawing Sherlock from his temporary stupor. “Me coming on you makes me yours?”

His fingers—two of them now—continued their probing, dipping deeply enough that his knuckles dug into Sherlock’s tailbone, making Sherlock moan softly. He liked the stretch, strange sensation though it was, and the wet squelching sounds John’s fingers made each time they pushed past the rim.

“It’s generally the other way round,” John continued, and Sherlock realised he’d forgotten to respond to his question. “Me coming on you makes you mine. Like I’m marking my territory.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Linguistically,” he said, sounding rather more breathless and dazed than he felt, “you’re _giving it to me_ , aren’t you? And I’m _taking it_ , yes?”

“Hmm. Suppose so.” There was a smile in John’s voice. Then his fingers slipped out, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered because he knew what that meant. “Shall I give it to you, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his cheek senselessly against the duvet and spreading his legs wide for John’s cock, which pressed between his cheeks a moment later.

The initial penetration was a slow, tedious process. Primarily due to John’s reluctance to hurt him, which Sherlock appreciated in theory but found quite annoying in practise.

Every time that Sherlock’s breath hitched or muscles tensed from the discomfort, John insisted on pulling out, adding more lubricant, and murmuring soothing nonsense that pained Sherlock far, far more than the thick cock splitting him open.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “It’s fine. Get on with it.”

“It’s not fine.” Sherlock could hear that John’s teeth were gritted, his jaw clenched. “Anal sex doesn’t have to hurt, you know.”

There was the _snick_ of a bottle being opened, followed by even _more_ lube being slathered into his arse.

“Of course it doesn’t _have to_ , but I _want it to_. Now for god’s sake, John, _get on with_ —”

John shoved in, in a single thrust that sent Sherlock sliding forwards, forced his face into the mattress. And it hurt. The pain was far from unbearable, only a slight burn as his hole stretched to accommodate John’s girth, but it was there.

It was… perhaps not good, but satisfying. His body was assimilating, adjusting itself so it could take John inside. He felt invincible. He wanted John to stay inside him indefinitely.

“Well, in that case,” John said, and the strain of holding himself still, with Sherlock doubtlessly so tight and warm around him, was evident in his voice. “Wanting it’s a bit different, isn’t it?”

Was John still on about that? Stupid. Far more important things they could be doing now.

Sherlock lifted his head, shaking the fringe from his eyes. “Just do it. As hard as you need to. I want your come.”

The first thrust was weak, hesitant, yet pleasurable enough that Sherlock’s breath caught on a whimper. The second was stronger, enough to wrench a full moan from Sherlock’s throat, and the third was nearly brutal. Sherlock was knocked off balance and sent face-first into the duvet once again, although he only scarcely noticed it. He was far more intent on the burn in his arse and the knowledge that faster and rougher meant quicker, less time before he felt the warm flood of John’s ejaculate inside him.

Thankfully, John didn’t bother to paw at Sherlock’s cock. He didn’t seem to care about Sherlock’s pleasure at all, in fact. He fucked Sherlock like a man possessed, or like a lowly animal whose sole purpose was to mount and breed its mate. He panted and grunted and gripped Sherlock’s hips so tightly he could almost feel the capillaries rupturing. John’s pelvis slapped obscenely against Sherlock’s arse cheeks, and Sherlock’s knees slowly skidded along the duvet.

It freed Sherlock from having to worry about his own arousal, about his own erection which was swollen and throbbing with the desire to come despite the discomfort of the rest of his body. Instead, he thought of John. Pictured John’s penis encased in Sherlock’s flesh, pushing deeper and deeper. He recalled that this was the first time John had fucked someone without protection, that he was no doubt lost in the sensation, marvelling at how it felt to bugger someone without any loss of sensitivity a condom would bring.

Perhaps it was the best sex John had ever felt. Sherlock would be the best John had ever had. The thought made his chest feel tight. A whine stuck in his throat.

He imagined that John would come in him so deep that it would leak from him for hours. Perhaps days from now, Sherlock would stand in Lestrade’s office, in the middle of a case, and feel some of it trickling down his leg.

Ridiculous, of course. Entirely implausible. But oh, what a thought.

“Hurry up,” he said. Attempted to say, in any case, although his voice was considerably muffled by the duvet covering his mouth.

To his alarm, John went still, refusing to move even when Sherlock shook his head frantically and tried to gain enough leverage to rock back onto John’s cock.

“Did you just tell me to hurry up?” There was laughter in John’s voice, as well as a touch of incredulity. He seemed utterly, disappointingly unmoved by Sherlock’s pointed squirming. “You arrogant little shit.”

 _I want you to give me your come already_ , Sherlock started to say, but had got to only the second syllable when John grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. Sherlock scrambled to his hands and knees, lest his hair be ripped from his scalp, but John continued pulling until Sherlock’s back was bowed slightly, his face to the ceiling.

“Just stay still,” John said, practically growling, “and take it.”

Then he shoved his prick into Sherlock again, and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, letting loose a sharp “ _ah._ ” It was exquisite: the position, the angle, the force. John did it again, and Sherlock sent another cry to the ceiling.

“Good?” John asked with another thrust, and Sherlock let yet another cry be his answer.

It was so good it was indescribable. A pressure inside him, an odd but pleasant tickling sensation seeming to come from the head of his prick. He wanted it again, and again, and thankfully John seemed happy to oblige.

“See what happens when you’re patient,” John said. “You get fucked like the come slut you are.”

And if he said anything further, then Sherlock didn’t hear it. Nor did he care, because he was being fucked so hard his whole body heaved forwards with every thrust. Only John’s hand in his hair kept him upright and somewhat stable, and he could hear (and see, in his peripheral vision) the headboard banging the wall in a steady, pounding rhythm.

“Please,” he said. “Oh, god, please.”

He didn’t even know what he was begging for anymore, for John to come or for himself to come. His toes curled and his fingers clenched. His cock pulsed uselessly, dribbling precome.

Eventually, John’s grasp on his hair loosened, then let go altogether, and Sherlock pitched forwards. He grabbed a fistful of the duvet, hauled it to his mouth, and wailed helplessly into the fabric as John held his hips in place and fucked him.

“I’m coming,” John said finally. He sounded overcome, lost, a dying man past the point of rescue. “Oh, fuck. Take it, _take it_ —”

At the first rush of warm come in his hole, Sherlock’s mouth fell open and his prick jerked, waves of pleasure hitting like a freight train, and he was sure for a moment that he was coming as well.

But he wasn’t. His cock stayed hard, his balls heavy and aching, as John filled him with semen.

While John finished, Sherlock lay still and quiet, relishing the sensation of John giving himself to Sherlock, the sound of John crying “oh god, oh god” as though the experience was religious, transformative.

 _Mine_ , Sherlock thought deliriously. _You are_ mine.

Eventually, John’s thrusts slowed to a halt, and he slumped over Sherlock’s back, panting and dripping sweat onto Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock squirmed, imagining he could feel the come continuing to spread throughout his arse, coating every bit of his inner walls. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but he didn’t care.

“Shit,” said John. He sounded shattered, overwhelmed. Sherlock didn’t have to be looking at him to see his expression clearly: skin flushed and damp, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, his lips reddened and wet from his own tongue. “Sorry. I have to pull out. I can’t—”

Post-orgasm sensitivity, of course. Sherlock didn’t mind, however, and let John slide out without complaint.

Although he did walk his knees forwards until they were under him, pushing his bottom into the air, ignoring how his legs were trembling and aching from being held in one position. He wasn’t ready for the semen to leak out. Not yet.

“Are you serious?” John laughed weakly. “We’re not trying to get you pregnant, you realise.”

But it was a fond sort of laugh, so Sherlock’s flash of shame was miniscule and faded quickly. “Shut up.”

“Jesus. You really _are_ into this, aren’t you?”

Rhetorical question. Obvious answer.

Sherlock said nothing, until John grabbed his thighs and scooted backwards, coaxing his legs straight. Then Sherlock groaned his protest and told John, “Ugh, piss _off_ —”

“Just trust me, you berk,” John answered, in his Army, Captain Watson voice. And when Sherlock stopped resisting and let himself be laid flat on the bed, John let go of his legs and spread his arse cheeks.

The picture Sherlock made then must have been obscene, his hole loose and sloppy. Seconds later, it was worse as Sherlock finally felt a trickle of warm come seep out. John, however—wonderful, filthy John—gathered it with a swipe of his finger and shoved it back in.

The finger stayed there, effectively keeping Sherlock plugged.

Sherlock’s moan was pitiful, shameful, but he was helpless to hold it back.

“Better?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

“Mm. I think I might like to feed you my come with my fingers.” John circled the finger slowly, teasingly, in Sherlock’s hole. “How does that sound to you?”

Taboo. Dirty, despite how fastidiously Sherlock had cleaned himself earlier. But so, so good.

Good John, perfect John—and he belonged entirely to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded again, and the mattress shuddered as John moved, lying down beside him. The movement caused his finger to twist, and Sherlock whimpered at the sensation.

“Good. All right,” John said. “What about you? Do you want to come before, or after?”

To orgasm with John’s come in his arse, or to orgasm with John’s come in his mouth, his throat, his stomach, whilst traces of it still lingered in his arse. Sherlock didn’t even have to consider it.

“After.”

“All right,” John said again, and pressed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder blade. “Turn to me, then, and open your mouth.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You masturbated,” Sherlock said, and the pleasant mood that had accompanied his trip to Bart’s—fatal necrotising fasciitis! he’d been so pleased Molly had allowed him to be present for the autopsy that he’d kissed her cheek in glee—shattered like a mirror.

John, seated at the desk in front of his computer, stared open-mouthed in shock. “How could you possibly know that?”

In fact, several pieces of evidence pointed to that conclusion—John’s complexion and posture, the wrinkles on his shirt, the state of his hair—but before Sherlock could explain, John shook his head.

“Never mind. I don’t want to know. You’re right, of course.”

Of course. Sherlock was rarely wrong. And precisely as Sherlock had expected, John returned to his computer as though the issue were entirely resolved.

Which Sherlock supposed it was. Or it should have been. But it wasn’t. Why wasn’t it?

John glanced up again. “You’re upset,” he said, which was surprisingly astute. “You’re _actually_ upset that I masturbated while you were gone. Surely you realise that us having sex doesn’t mean I can’t masturbate any longer.”

“Yes, _obviously_.” Sherlock also realised that masturbation and sex satisfied entirely different urges and that to forbid or even discourage a sexual partner from masturbating was unreasonable and reprehensible. “I had just been eagerly looking forward to getting back and choking myself on your cock, so to learn that you’ve already satisfied yourself this morning is… disappointing.”

It wasn’t entirely true. Sherlock hadn’t been thinking of sex at all, but rather the effects of flesh-eating bacteria on human tissue and the sorts of experiments he could have performed if Molly hadn’t refused to provide him a sample. Still, his good mood would have almost certainly led to sex with John when he returned to the flat.

But John’s refractory period was abysmal. It would be hours before he was ready for another go, and even then, the amount of ejaculate would be reduced. And what was the point of choking on cock if it didn’t end with his throat being filled with come?

But John surprised him by saying, “No you weren’t. If you had been looking forward to sex, I would’ve got at least four dirty texts telling me so.”

Sherlock huffed, throwing up his hands. “Well that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have wanted sex eventually! I hope your wank was satisfactory, since—”

“Sherlock!” John barked.

It wasn’t quite his Army tone, but it was close enough that Sherlock shut up immediately, wishing he’d not said a word about it.

“Sherlock,” John said again, but more softly this time, almost tenderly. He closed his laptop, stood, and came closer. There was concern on his face—he clearly thought Sherlock was having some sort of emotional response.

Although, to be fair, he supposed that he was.

“Look,” John said, “it’s fine. Just because I had a wank an hour ago doesn’t mean we can’t have sex today. All right?”

_No_ , Sherlock thought in despair, _but it does mean that your come is dried in a crumpled handful of tissues which you no doubt binned like rubbish._

But he said nothing, only nodded solemnly as though the issue were resolved, and didn’t mention it again for the rest of the day.

*

He thought about it, however. He thought about it a lot, in fact. And eventually he thought he’d arrived at a suitable solution.

It was a bit… excessive, he realised, and in other circumstances, he might’ve hesitated to broach the subject. But this was John, who had been not only tolerant of Sherlock’s interests but _enthusiastic_ about indulging them.

After all, just that morning, John had woken him by lifting Sherlock’s head from the pillow by his hair, kissing the side of his throat, and murmuring sleepily, “Where do you want it, sweetheart? In your mouth or in your arse?”

Sherlock had wanted it in his arse, the same as the previous night, so John had pushed inside his already slick and loosened hole, fucked him so slowly and sweetly it was almost unbearable, and then filled him with a fresh load of come to mingle with last night’s remnants.

After John left for work, Sherlock lay in bed with three fingers up his arse for hours, until the cramps in his arms and shoulders were too much for him to bear, and then he sucked the ejaculate from the sheets as it leaked onto them.

Brilliant John, perfect John. Eight days without a case now, and still Sherlock was utterly content.

So he felt no hesitation, no concern in the slightest, when John returned. Sherlock simply sat in his armchair, facing John, and proposed his solution.

Certainly he wasn’t expecting John to stare blankly at him and say, as though the idea were ludicrous, “Are you serious? You want me to save my come for you?”

Sherlock’s confidence splintered, and he felt momentarily adrift before he gathered himself again. “It seemed the simplest solution to the issue.”

“The issue of you not wanting me to masturbate, you mean?”

Sherlock scowled, offended. “I would never presume to dictate your masturbatory habits.”

“No, of course not. Only the bit about where I come.”

Sherlock was startled into silence. That wasn’t what he had meant. Well… on second thought, perhaps it was, but not in the way that John was implying. He didn’t think so, anyway.

“Sherlock, this isn’t—” John began, then stopped, shaking his head. He sank into his chair across from Sherlock’s and stared at the carpet, as though incapable of meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “People have kinks, you know, and that’s fine. I _like_ kinks. But this is beyond a kink, Sherlock. This is… obsessive. This is….”

_Unnatural_ , Sherlock thought, when John trailed off uncomfortably. _Freakish_. Panic descended like a plague.

Of course Sherlock’s sexual interests were freakish. Normal people didn’t fixate on their partners’ semen. John had been indulgent thus far—more so than the average person—and had let Sherlock push him past his comfort zone, and now Sherlock had pushed him too far.

“Forget it,” Sherlock said hastily. “All of that, just—”

“I’m not saying no.”

John’s voice was soft, and finally he met Sherlock’s gaze, although now Sherlock was the one who couldn’t bear to maintain eye contact. If there was even a hint of disgust in John’s expression, then Sherlock thought he might quite literally never recover. He stared intently at his own feet.

“It’s just… you really can’t do anything halfway, can you? You have to throw yourself into it.”

_Why did you insist on doing this?_ Sherlock despaired. _You could have been content with what you’d been given, but you had to ask for more, didn’t you?_

“Hey,” John said. “Look at me.”

Sherlock did. John was leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. His expression was so kind Sherlock could hardly stand it.

“I’m not saying no,” John insisted. “I’m not. I just need to think about it. All right?”

And what could Sherlock do but agree and try to get on with his life.

*

Sherlock anticipated a lapse in the sex, for John to distance himself temporarily. (He did not let himself consider the possibility that it would be permanent. If he did, it would surely lead to an emotional response of the most blatant and shameful sort.)

So he was surprised when, only a day later, John climbed into his lap and kissed his throat, his jaw, his lips.

“All right?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded so vehemently he must have looked ridiculous. “Excellent. Where do you want it?”

“My stomach,” Sherlock said. He was breathless at the mere thought. He would rub the semen into his skin, let it dry there, keep it there until he was forced to shower and wash it away. Unmistakable proof that John wanted him, no matter how freakish his desires.

Although he hated himself for reminding John of it as soon as he’d spoken. John went still and quiet. His eyes narrowed, and he peered into Sherlock’s face as though he were capable of Sherlock’s level of deduction.

“What?” Sherlock asked, and was pleased that he sounded only mildly curious rather than defensive.

John shook his head. “No, sorry, just… thinking.”

And then, again to Sherlock’s surprise, he carried on as though nothing had happened: letting Sherlock settle back in his chair with his hands on John’s waist holding him steady whilst John opened Sherlock’s shirt and tossed himself to ejaculation just below Sherlock’s ribs. Then he helped Sherlock rub it into his skin, rocking down onto Sherlock’s cock, and murmuring, “Look at you. Covered in me. You love that, don’t you? Imagine if you went out like this, my come all over you. You’d stink of it. Everyone would smell it, then look at me beside you and know I was yours.”

Sherlock came in his pants like that, whimpering and shaking, and clung to John afterwards, oxytocin making his adoration and his desire for John’s continued partnership nearly unbearable.

John held him, careful not to disturb the drying semen on Sherlock’s stomach, until Sherlock recovered.

*

The first test tube in the freezer, sitting alone in a white plastic test tube rack and discovered when Sherlock was bent at the waist in front of it searching for his bag of bat droppings (which had previously been in the fridge and he suspected John had since thrown out), was a surprise. Its contents were even more so: seminal fluid, presumably human, frozen solid but still identifiable.

“Hope you don’t mind,” John said. “I helped myself to one of your test tubes.”

Sherlock whirled around, spotting John approaching from the living room with an empty teacup. It was the first time in recent memory Sherlock hadn’t been aware of his presence, so focused was he on the tube of semen clutched in his hand.

“And if you do mind,” John continued, stopping a short distance away, “well, you can bugger off. You take my things without asking all the bloody time.”

“You masturbated,” Sherlock said. “Yesterday, in the shower.”

He remembered. Although he didn’t recall John putting anything in the freezer afterwards, but doubtlessly he wouldn’t notice that sort of thing. Not significant enough for Sherlock to waste mental energy on. Until now, of course.

“I did,” John agreed with a nod. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to just be presented with a tube of come without warning, so I tried to preserve it. Well, sort of. The sperm’s long dead, but I don’t think you particularly care about that. I could do something different in the future, if you’d like.”

“No. No, preserving it like this is… fine.”

Sherlock bent down and replaced the test tube carefully into the plastic rack he’d removed it from, then closed the freezer door and stood. He wouldn’t have objected to receiving a spontaneous gift of semen, but preserving it was…. It was good. He liked that. Wonderful, occasionally clever John. Sherlock’s affection was a beast behind his rib cage, pounding against his sternum.

“I’ll buy a new set of test tubes specifically for that purpose,” he said, which was the first thought that came to mind. He wasn’t sure what else to say that would communicate the depth of his gratitude.

But John didn’t seem to expect anything further. “All right,” he said, then shrugged with a smile and went to make himself another cup of tea.

*

One test tube became three, and then five, and soon Sherlock had to purchase another rack when the first was full.

“You’re just going to let them collect?” John asked one afternoon, watching from the table as Sherlock fixed the appropriate label to the newest tube (noting the date and approximate time the sample had been gathered, in addition to John’s name, which he’d written on all of them even though Sherlock had no intention of ever collecting semen from anyone else).

“Of course.” The label finished, Sherlock replaced the test tube, closed the freezer door, and stood. “You expected something else?”

“Dunno. Suppose I thought you might….”

Sherlock glanced curiously at him, but John was looking down, rubbing the back of his neck as though he were suddenly uncomfortable. Or embarrassed.

Ah. He thought Sherlock would want to masturbate with it. A logical assumption given his proclivities, Sherlock supposed, but not correct. He got far, far too much enjoyment out of simply _having_ test tubes of John’s semen preserved in the freezer.

Every evening he checked to see if another had been added during the day, and glimpsing a telltale sign of masturbation on John’s person was always followed by Sherlock darting to the kitchen, verifying that yes, John had saved his ejaculate just as Sherlock had asked. Even though it was an unnatural and obnoxious request, John had done it for Sherlock, had given part of himself to Sherlock for Sherlock to keep or use as it pleased him.

And oh, it did please him.

Sherlock had begun to wish for a drugs bust. His collection would be found, the contents of each tube identified clearly as John Watson’s, and then all of Scotland Yard would know that John was his.

“Also, you might’ve noticed we’re running out of room in there,” John said.

Sherlock acknowledged the truth of the statement with an incline of his head. He’d been searching the internet for acceptable refrigerated storage containers just that afternoon. He wondered if John could be convinced to allow Sherlock to install one in the living room, or if Sherlock would be forced to keep it hidden away in his bedroom.

“Does it bother you?” Sherlock said abruptly. Just to be certain. He needed to be certain. “My… fixation?”

To his faint surprise, John shook his head immediately. “Course not. I’ll admit, this all seemed a little odd at first.” He nodded towards the fridge. With the results of their STI tests still taped to the top door and multiple test tubes of John’s semen inside the freezer on the bottom, it was a veritable shrine to Sherlock’s perversity. “But once I got used to the idea, it was fine.”

With a shrug, he looked down at the table and, with a frown, rubbed at a faintly discoloured patch of wood, the result of an experiment so old Sherlock couldn’t even recall what it had been.

“Suppose I should just be glad you’re not using my come in some sort of experiment,” John muttered, and when he met Sherlock’s gaze again, there was a cheeky smile curving his lips.

Sherlock felt warm and light, a fleck of dust falling in a beam of sunlight. He wanted John’s mouth on his, John’s hands on him, John’s come making translucent rivulets on his skin.

“Ah,” said John. “I know that look. Fancy a shag?”

Sherlock very much did.

*

They moved into Sherlock’s bedroom, which was swiftly (finally) becoming _their_ bedroom, and John retrieved the bottle of lubricant from the bedside table before he joined Sherlock on the bed.

Penetration, then. Sherlock shivered pleasantly in anticipation. Not what he had imagined for this encounter, but certainly not objectionable.

However, when he tried to roll onto his stomach—his favourite position by far, John never failed to lose control and grab him by the hair and bugger him until his arms and knees were shaking—John stopped him, looking hesitant.

“Actually,” he said, “I thought this time you might want to switch.”

_Switch_. Meaning, presumably, that John would be the one being penetrated rather than Sherlock. He considered this. John on his front—no, absolutely not, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see his cock and most of his semen would be absorbed by the duvet. John on his back—Sherlock would have to remain upright, as leaning forwards even slightly would obstruct his view.

“Only if we can do so with me on my back and you on top of me,” Sherlock decided. He would be able to see John’s cock perfectly, and his semen would spill onto Sherlock’s stomach, which was exactly what he had envisioned in the first place.

When John only stared at him as though what he’d said was particularly shocking, it occurred to Sherlock that perhaps it was not good to dictate the sort of sex they would be having. Perhaps John preferred a different position or experienced discomfort when he was on top.

“Although I would of course be open to other ideas,” Sherlock amended, sounding more alarmed than he would have liked, “if you have—”

“No,” John said quickly. “No, sorry, that’s fine. I was just thinking. I suppose you’ll want to forego condoms, then?”

Sherlock didn’t particularly care, in fact. His own semen was uninteresting and insignificant as far as he was concerned, and if John wanted it collected in a condom and disposed of outside his body, Sherlock would go along with it without complaint.

But, more likely, John would be concerned about the seeming inequality, so Sherlock nodded. “Unless you have an objection to the idea.”

John did not, so they carried on.

It had been years since Sherlock had penetrated another person anally, or vaginally for that matter, so the tightness of John’s body as it sunk onto his prick—compounded by the fact that John didn’t prepare himself as diligently as he always did Sherlock—was overwhelming: vicelike, intense, almost enough to slow his thoughts and make him forget himself.

He shoved the sensation as far back in his conscious awareness as he could—it would only distract him—replacing it with the sight of John seated fully on his cock for the first time. John’s forehead was wrinkled, his thighs trembling, and his hair shone golden in the lamplight. His penis lay limp against Sherlock’s stomach, which was entirely unacceptable.

“Are you okay?” John asked, then jolted when Sherlock grasped his cock, still thick and lovely despite its softness, with his right hand. “Jesus, Sherlock!”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said. “I just want to ensure your enjoyment.”

He rubbed his thumb gently over John’s foreskin, dragging it over the sensitive head. Hissing, John moved as though to grab Sherlock’s wrist and stop him, but Sherlock waved him away.

“That’s—” John made a soft, weak sound, and his cock gave a strong jerk in Sherlock’s grip. “I appreciate that, I do, but… oh god. Um. But it’s _your_ enjoyment I’m concerned about.”

_Idiot_ , Sherlock thought fondly. “If you honestly think the two are unrelated, you understand my interests even less than I had thought.”

Sherlock stroked slowly down the shaft, dragging the foreskin back and exposing the glans, and with a sudden but minute twitch of John’s hips into his grip, Sherlock finally felt his prick begin to harden. Another soft, breathy sound fell from John’s lips, but his gaze was fixed oddly intently on Sherlock’s face. Trying to deduce him, Sherlock thought, although he couldn’t imagine why.

“Here,” Sherlock said. He let go of John’s cock—John’s hips twitched again, this time clearly in disappointment—and replaced his hand with John’s left one, manoeuvring John’s fingers until they were gripping the shaft precisely as his had been. “Bring yourself to orgasm. Whatever you need to do. I’ll only be truly enjoying myself when I have your come on me, John, you know that.”

John stared a moment longer before he proceeded to do exactly that. He touched himself slowly, moving his fist in languid pulls up and down the shaft, pausing every now and then to rub his palm over the tip. Through it all, he stayed utterly still on Sherlock’s prick, except for the small involuntary motions his own wanking created. Sherlock was thankful for that bit; it meant he had little difficulty ignoring his own erection, his own pleasure, and focusing only on John’s.

And primarily on the pink helmet-shaped head, darkening as it disappeared into John’s fist and then peeked out again.

By the time the first drop of precome seeped out of the slit, making the glans glisten wetly, Sherlock felt he’d been waiting ages for it. He longed to lick it up, put his mouth on John’s cock and catch the drops that followed.

“Sorry,” John grunted. “Can’t stand prostate stimulation, so I’m avoiding it. It’d probably make me come more, but—”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. There was a note of desperation in his voice. Appropriate, he supposed, since his desire for John to ejaculate was beginning to border on desperation. Why attempt to hide it? “Just come, John. Please.”

John’s arse clenched around Sherlock’s prick, firmly and suddenly enough that it made Sherlock’s pleasure rocket back into his awareness. He realised how very, very swollen his own cock was, how warm and slick John was inside. He clutched at the duvet on either side of him, clinging to his control so he didn’t thrust upwards and ruin everything, and let out a long whining cry.

He was so distracted he nearly missed— _nearly_ , but thankfully did not—the first shot of come, which reached all the way to Sherlock’s breastbone. The rest spilled onto his stomach, making a small puddle that began to spread across his skin.

“Shh,” John said, his chest and shoulders heaving, and Sherlock realised his own low, needy whimpers were drowning out the sounds of John’s orgasm, his panting and guttural groans.

Sherlock tried to shut himself up, but found it difficult. His transport, treacherous thing that it was, was beginning to rebel: his prick throbbed painfully, his limbs quivered, and his throat felt uncomfortably tight.

“Here,” John said. He abandoned his softening cock to scoop a bit of semen from Sherlock’s stomach onto his index finger, which he brought to Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock opened immediately for it, but John only smeared it across Sherlock’s bottom lip and then drew back so he could watch Sherlock lick it off.

“More?” John asked with a cheeky half-grin.

Sherlock nodded, but this time rather than bringing the come to Sherlock’s lips, John spread it across his right cheekbone.

“Keep that there,” he said.

Sherlock shivered, eyelids fluttering, and nodded again.

“Good. That’s very good, Sherlock.”

John rewarded him with another scoop of come, deposited straight onto his tongue.

“There,” John said. And although there was more ejaculate on Sherlock’s stomach and chest, John left it alone, resting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s waist. “Can I ride you now?”

_Ride._ As though Sherlock were a horse for John to make use of. It shouldn’t have sounded as appealing as it did. Sherlock swallowed thickly and fought to keep himself from rolling his hips, humping up into John’s tight, warm arse like an animal until he came. He nodded.

“Brilliant.” John planted his hands on Sherlock’s chest. His grin was nearly diabolical. “I should probably warn you, though: I’m very, _very_ good at it.”

He was. He really, truly was.

John rode him furiously, relentlessly, until all thought had left his head aside from a string of nonsense like _ah_ and _fuck_ and _please god please._ He felt as helpless as he did with John’s hand in his hair, holding him still. He could only lie as still as possible, gasping and crying while John pounded himself on Sherlock’s cock. When John fell forwards, shifting the work from his arms to his thighs, Sherlock clung to his shoulders and sobbed. It felt so good it hurt: the friction, the heat.

John panted into his face, his breath a fan of warmth on Sherlock’s cheek, and said through deep gulps of air, “Come on, Sherlock. Give it to me. I want to have you just as much as you have me.”

_Idiot_ , Sherlock thought. If he didn’t know that Sherlock was already his, and had been for years, then there was no hope for him.

But he came anyway, filling John’s arse with semen while John made soothing noises and fucked him vigorously through it.

*

“I’ve got an idea,” said John a week later, coming to stand beside where Sherlock was sat at his microscope looking at soil samples. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh?” Sherlock leaned back in interest. His soil samples, far from an urgent project, could wait. “What is it?”

“Telling you would ruin the surprise,” John said, and smiled innocently when Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Would it? Surely you realise how easy it would be for me to deduce your ‘surprise.’”

John’s smile widened. “But you won’t. Because you like surprises.”

_Like_ wasn’t precisely the word for it, but Sherlock supposed it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. So he said nothing, conceding the point, and made no attempt to deduce.

“We’ll need something you can bend over,” John said. “The bed or a chair, I’m not fussy about what.”

_Bend over._ Sherlock’s mild interest and curiosity became vibrant enthusiasm. “Ah, so it’s sex-related.” He looked around. The kitchen table seemed an obvious choice, although it would need to be cleared first. “I can bend over the table. Easy enough to clear, and it would provide a hard, stable surface for me to grip. Would you prefer me partially clothed, or should I—”

“You’re not busy, then? Looked like you might be. It doesn’t have to be today.”

“Busy? No. Hardly.” With flutters of anticipation in his stomach, Sherlock began to gather up all the parts of his experiment so he could move them… somewhere. The living room, perhaps; it could all probably fit on the desk. “Should I—”

“You should go have a shower, I think.” John took the dishes of soil samples from Sherlock’s hands, licking his lips as he did. “Take your time, and get yourself nice and slick when you’re done. I want you clean and wet. That’ll give me time to get everything ready.”

Sherlock wasted no time hurrying into the bathroom. In the shower, he cleaned himself painstakingly thoroughly, shoving his own fingers up his bottom to rinse it out. Not as effective as an enema, perhaps, but they didn’t have an enema kit in the flat, so it would do.

Afterwards, he propped one leg up on the sink and fingered himself open, using what seemed like a full litre of lubricant to ensure his hole was acceptably wet by John’s standards.

When he finished, he didn’t bother dressing himself again. He simply towelled himself dry and returned to the kitchen.

The table had been cleared entirely, and Sherlock’s microscope supplies and soil samples were nowhere in sight. The chairs too had been shoved out of the way and into the living room, leaving them plenty of room. John’s clothes were arranged in a haphazard pile in the seat of one chair, and he stood waiting for Sherlock in only his pants.

Sherlock’s throat went dry. He hoped John didn’t insist on foreplay.

“Shall I bend over the table, then?”

The right corner of John’s lip quirked up—a smug sort of smile that promised all manner of filthy things. “Go right ahead.”

Sherlock did, taking care not to mash his prick against the sharp edge. The wood was cool against his chest and stomach. He turned his head to the side so he could watch in his peripheral vision as John shimmied his pants off his hips and down his legs.

“Face front,” John said, in a tone that brooked no argument, and Sherlock obeyed immediately.

A moment later, there was the baffling _clink_ of glass against glass, and then John approached the table, set something (glass, by the sound) on it, and spread Sherlock’s arse cheeks with one hand. The other hand was clearly occupied, and indeed Sherlock heard and felt John extend an arm towards the glass.

“I’ve already prepared myself,” Sherlock told him indignantly. “If you’re not satisfied, then—”

_Cold_. A bloody cold fucking finger circled the rim of Sherlock’s hole before dipping inside. Sherlock gasped and jolted, tried to squirm away from the cold but only succeeded in squirming himself further onto it. His mind spun. _Glass. Cold. Surprise._

The pieces slotted together, and he couldn’t stop himself from swivelling his head around, spotting and identifying the glass on the table. A beaker with a glass stirring rod. Inside it, a whitish liquid, made thick by the cold.

Sherlock moaned, dropping his head back to the table with a _thunk_ that he hardly felt. His cock, only halfway interested in the proceedings thus far, pulsed and began to thicken so quickly the rush of blood made him lightheaded.

“Sorry about the cold,” John said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I warmed it up as much as I could, but you didn’t give me a whole lot of time, did you? Your body temperature will warm it fairly quickly, though. Maybe it’ll get slicker then as well. Right now, it’s mostly just sticky.”

“Oh god.” Sherlock felt delirious. The come from John’s masturbatory sessions, preserved in the freezer and now being smeared inside him to supplement the lubricant Sherlock had put there himself. “Oh. John.”

“I know you wanted to save all the test tubes indefinitely—and I _can_ see your internet history when you use my computer, by the way, so I know you’ve been looking at storage possibilities—but I thought getting rid of them this way might be acceptable to you.”

It was. It very much was. Sherlock nodded, raising his arse wantonly while John continued to spread his come in Sherlock’s hole. Was there enough to fill him properly? To make him cramp and his abdomen swell? He doubted it. That seemed too much to hope for—and perhaps something more suited to fantasy than reality.

When John removed his fingers, Sherlock whimpered and lifted his arse even higher, trying to keep them in, but then they were replaced by the tip of John’s cock. It seemed unusually warm after the coldness of his semen. Sherlock gripped the edge of the table, closed his eyes, and concentrated on relaxing, taking in John’s cock and the fresh load of come that would soon follow.

The burn was mild, easily ignored, and it lasted only until John was seated fully inside him.

“All right?” John asked, stroking Sherlock’s sides. “How are your legs?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said—or, more accurately, croaked, so he cleared his throat and repeated his answer. His thighs and calves would no doubt be shaking and aching by the end of this, but presently they were fine.

“Good.” John’s hands grazed higher and then abandoned Sherlock entirely to reach for the beaker of semen, which required him to bend over Sherlock’s back, angling his hips downwards. Sherlock groaned softly at the stretch. “Lift up for me.”

Sherlock raised himself onto his elbows, and John curled his arms around his chest, laid his hands just below either of Sherlock’s pectorals. His fingers were cold. Sherlock lowered his chin to watch John’s hands—quite literally covered in come, the skin shining nearly to his wrists—drag teasingly along his ribs before his fingers found Sherlock’s nipples.

They had never been particularly sensitive, but the cold and the knowledge that they were being coated in John’s ejaculate served to heighten the sensation. They hardened, puckered, and felt so good his cock gave a needy little jerk. He moaned, arching into the touch, and then whined pitifully when John abandoned them, trailing down his abdominal muscles instead. His nipples ached torturously, begging to be toyed with some more, but when Sherlock tried to drop back down to the table in protest, John grabbed a fistful of hair in his left hand and kept him propped up.

“Don’t,” John said, his voice practically a growl. “Not until it’s dry. I want my come on _you_ , not our kitchen table.”

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and then he couldn’t help it: he rocked back onto John’s cock, fucked himself with tiny movements until John yanked him so far up he lost his leverage and could only hover there, full of John’s prick.

“Such an impatient little come slut, aren’t you?” There was a grin in John’s voice. “Remember what I said about being patient?”

Sherlock tried to nod, but John’s grip was too tight and unforgiving. Fortunately, John didn’t expect an answer.

“Here,” he said, and then there were a pair of cold fingers tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip. When Sherlock opened his mouth, they plunged inside and pressed down on his tongue, flooding his senses with the taste of semen. It tasted more bitter than usual, almost sour, but there was no mistaking it as anything other than come—or as belonging to anyone other than John.

“Good?” John asked, although again he held Sherlock’s head too tightly for him to nod. So Sherlock made an affirming grunt instead as he licked at John’s fingers, then closed his lips around them and sucked. “Good.”

When all of the semen had been cleaned off, John slipped his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth with a wet _pop_ and scooped up some more. Sherlock opened his mouth and extended his tongue expectantly, but instead, John smeared the come along his jawline, down the column of his throat, and then back up to his chin.

“Let that dry too,” John told him. “I want you wearing my come for the rest of the day. Understand?”

_Yes._ Sherlock mouthed the word, but the rest of his body refused to cooperate and give it sound. He felt inebriated, weak, even slower than the rest of humanity. He was very, very aware of his own body stretched uncomfortably around John’s cock, his scalp prickling where John’s grip held his hair taut, and John’s hand spreading ejaculate on his skin—on his left clavicle now, sweeping out towards his bicep. Everything else scarcely registered, lost in a haze of unimportant stimuli.

“It’s all right,” John said, his voice lowered in a soothing near-coo. “Nearly done, I promise.”

Sherlock realised he was shaking, taking deep gulps of air and expelling them in breathy sobs. Embarrassing, ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop.

“I think I want to eat at a restaurant for dinner,” John continued. “With my come still all over you. So everyone can see it, maybe even smell it, and know that I’m yours. I’m so much yours that you can wear me like a second skin. How does that sound?”

Perfect. It sounded perfect. Emotion swelled in Sherlock’s throat, a knot of overwhelming affection and fondness and adoration and love. John was perfect. John was everything.

“Hmm,” John hummed. His hand skimmed Sherlock’s chest and stomach, then lifted to graze his cheeks and chin. “That should be dry enough. Still want to be fucked?”

Sherlock’s prick gave a violent twitch, and he felt a thick drop of precome dribble from the slit and drip onto the table. Of course he still wanted it. Oh god, he wanted it. Summoning all of his strength, he heaved forwards, and this time John loosened his grip on his hair and allowed him to bend over the table again: a veritable engraved invitation to be debauched.

“Excellent,” John said, and proceeded to fuck Sherlock so hard the table shook, rattled, and groaned beneath him and he clawed uselessly at the wood and then clutched the edge above his head for dear life.

It was pleasurable in the sense that it wasn’t pleasurable at all. Sherlock’s cock and prostate were ignored entirely, the friction burned, and it felt as though he were being split open, used, and because of that, it was exquisite. John would come quickly and messily, and Sherlock would be sore and filthy afterwards. He would wear the evidence in everything from his scent to his gait.

“Christ, you’re wet,” John gasped. “Listen to it.” His thrusts slowed enough that Sherlock could hear, over the rattling table and slapping of their bodies, the wet squelch of his hole sucking at John’s cock. “How full of my come you are.”

Sherlock was startled by the moan that found its way out his mouth: loud and high, somewhere between a whine and a wail. Then John’s thrusts sped up again, and he could no longer find the breath to cry out. His mouth hung uselessly open, panting like a dog, while John fucked him senseless.

Finally, John’s rhythm began to falter, and Sherlock could _feel_ his cock twitch, ready to spill into Sherlock’s greedy hole—just as John pulled out entirely, leaving him gaping and desperate. Before he could even begin to protest, John laid a heavy, no-nonsense hand on the small of his back.

“Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth, “you fucking move.”

Then Sherlock heard his left fist pumping slickly over his cock, felt John’s knuckles graze the top of his arse just to the left of his sacrum—he must’ve been balancing himself on his toes to put himself at that height—and Sherlock remained perfectly still while John finished, spilling his warm, fresh come onto Sherlock’s lower back. Almost as soon as it had pooled on his skin, John was spreading it up Sherlock’s spine and over his shoulder blades, then back down his sides.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, picturing his back glistening with John’s thin, translucent semen. The resulting rush of pleasure was so sharp it almost hurt. His testicles felt achingly full, his arsehole felt raw and loose, and he was trembling again, more violently than before, his thighs threatening to give completely. But he wasn’t ready for it to be over. Not nearly.

After a deep, steadying breath, he said, “Please. John, please.”

“I know.” John’s tone was soft, tender, although he was still out of breath. “You can’t just enjoy something, can you? You have to gorge yourself. It’s okay. Let’s get you in bed, all right? And then I can fill your arse with the rest of the come in this beaker before I get you off.”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, so grateful for John, wondrous and understanding and surprising John. John who belonged to Sherlock as he had never belonged to anyone else. “Yes, please.”


End file.
